No Song Unsung, No Wine Untasted
by shakespeareia
Summary: After his uneventful life as the ward of an aging aristocrat, Marius Pontmercy finds himself swept into a tide of revolution and sinful affection upon encountering Julien Enjolras... Based on the 2012 musical film. Slash with a capital S.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N. – First things first – **

**This is a speculative work with it's roots in the recent film, seeking to explain how - in the film-verse – Marius and Enjolras might have initially met and developed the intimacy that was practically blazing off the screen. Later, the plot will converge with canon. Moreover, almost all my knowledge of this fandom comes from the musical and the film – anything I need to know from the Brick, I look up online. In other words, disregard the book.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but what I thought up. **

**Warnings: Slash galore. I think that about covers it.**

Aristocracy was greatly overrated; or so the brown-eyed youth thought to himself, one long, pale finger idly tracing the needlework that covered the chair. All that was expected of one in _la bonne société_ was to maintain an appropriately haughty expression, be seen with right personages in the right places, and keep charmingly aloof. Supposedly, he had been assured since his cradle days, this would ensure him a good standing and an appropriately appealing wife.

Not that he had any use for either. _Dieu, _would it do the family such harm if he simply remained above stairs for the course of one evening? Besides, he'd be far more useful to his books than to _Grand-pere _and his talk of acres and estate -

The front knocker fell four times, and every sinew in Maris' belly stiffened.

His discomfort appeared only too obvious to the room's other occupants. Monsieur Gillenormand merely shot him a stern look, and rose to the more dominating position by the fireside. Another childhood lesson – _the master of any house must always appear so._

His aunt meanwhile – poor, mousy-haired _Tante Alexandrine_ – gazed sympathetically from beneath thin lashes. Heavens knew she likely despised the social circle for her own reasons – her lack of beauty for one thing, and her intense shyness, which seemed to have - indirectly and unfortunately - engrained itself into her nephew. Small wonder though, Marius pondered silently; she had been the chief upbringer nearly all of his short life, leaving the more "gentlemanly" elements of his education to his grandfather – never mind that he'd never exactly been informed of what those were...

Suddenly there came that wretched, too-polite cough from the majordomo, followed by his achingly proper pronouncement –

"_Le Baron Fernand d'Enjolras, et son fils_."

Knowing what was expected, Marius rose with an inaudible sigh – and found himself looking into the sun.

Blue eyes flickered about the room briefly before resting upon his own, and with a thrill he found that they chose to remain.

Vaguely, he realized his grandfather was introducing him, and offered his hand.

The aging baron had skin like leather, but the harsh texture was more than appeased by what followed. The second palm that met his own was warm to the touch, and firm, and as their eyes locked Marius couldn't be certain that the shared gaze wasn't radiating heat.

"_Enchanté, m'seigur_..."

_Dieu, _one could bathe in that voice... and the youth might have attempted it, had not the other young man released his grip and followed his father's lead in greeting the lady. Something cold flooded his veins at the loss of the contact – both physical and visual – yet the moment pleasantries were completed, and the men settled on a gilt chaise, Marius felt a rush of heat drown his belly as blue eyes settled upon his face once again.

Christ, he had thought these emotions purged long ago – ever since that... incident with the pageboy when he was sixteen...

Still, in his own soul, he couldn't bring himself to truly complain. Not when the blonde-curled beauty before him was such a far cry from the unassuming creature he had first envisioned, given the Baron's infamous lack of male attractiveness...

* * *

It was just as well that he despised seafood of any form, particularly _crabes_, though Marius privately doubted it would have mattered - had dinner been _canard à l'orange et gelée de champagne, _he would likely still have been poking incuriously with his fork.

His delight was barely four feet away, at the opposite side of the dining table, and little could distract him – besides, he'd much rather go hungry than wolf down something delicious, and risk appearing gluttonous... The thought quickly turned his head to the rest of his physique – was his face clean? Had that irritating wisp of brown hair finally decided to remain still? Or did he look little better than the scullery slattern?

His rush of panic was harshly interrupted by a barking laugh from the baron.

"_Mon Dieu _Charles, don't speak of politics before my son! He was all but ready to torch the estate upon learning you to be a royalist!"

The baron continued his chuckling, completely unaware of his son's increasing flush, his blue eyes glittering with what looked to be more rage than embarrassment. Marius instantly felt a rush of pity, and before he had quite given thought to the matter, came to the other's rescue.

"You're a republican than, _m'seigur_?"

The blonde youth allowed his tongue to roll slightly across his teeth, likely from discomfort, although it sent a thrill down the dark-eyed boy's spine.

"I say only that all men deserve an equal right to a life free of hardship – no more than is humanly lawful -"

"Gods!" came the voice from the head of the table, and Marius fought to choke back his annoyance at his grandfather's interruption. "Every boy these days has become a radical at heart, Fernand! They march off to these modernist universities and allow their heads to be filled with such rot on the streets. I fear for my charge, truly, with the winter term so near –"

"You attend the _Collège National_?" the younger guest broke in, thoroughly ignoring his father's pointed glare for interrupting the tirade.

Marius was aware that his hand had begun to flutter, and ground it dangerously into the muscle of his thigh.

"Indeed. You as well?"

"_Oui._"

His breath shallow, the youth made a show of biting his lips in a thoughtful manner – unaware that the abuse only plumped them red and inviting...

"What an... intriguing... coincidence..." he muttered, trying to focus upon the seashell meringue he had begun to allow to melt between his jaws, only too aware of the close gaze of the boy opposite.

"_Oui_..." he murmured again, the final syllable carrying only the ghost of a sigh - though imperceptible to any not searching – as he plucked a slick grape from the ornate cluster at the table's center, and laid it tantalizingly along his tongue... Which, Marius noticed involuntarily, was rather a ripe, fruitful red color...

The meal went on for five courses, the elder gentlemen bargaining the sale value of half the Gillenormand vineyards in Provence, and the lady of the house quietly calculating her timetable for the next day.

None took any notice of the two boys undressing each other with their eyes.

* * *

"_Bonsoir_."

Forcing down his leaping heartbeat, Marius turned his eyes to the library balcony, relatively unsurprised at being un-alone.

Fate was a trickster.

"_Et vous._"

He fought for composure, struggling to maintain the etiquette drummed into him since childhood, yet aching to throw propriety to the four winds and obey the wild scream in his head – _closer, closer, touch, feel..._

"If I – If I might apologize for my relations' behavior, _m'seigur_ –"

"Please," came the soft chide from above, "don't age me before my time. It's only Enjolras, at least to the boys at school..."

He seemed to pause for a moment, leaving a somewhat tense silence.

"In any event," he went on rapidly, in a darker tone. "I've grown accustomed to cynicism over time – hardly stings anymore." With a derisive laugh " Father thinks it wildly amusing to inform all we meet that I am betrothed to _Patria._ But anyway, it'll mean nothing once I've convinced the others –have you been to Paris? Not the bourgeoisie districts, the slums, the _Cour des miracles_?"

Marius only shook his head slightly, blushing with self-perceived inadequacy.

"It's sickening – beggars who blind themselves, mothers with six children turning to sell their bodies merely for a few scraps, children born into wretched families where their only hope of survival is extortion, swindling, and thievery – and all the while lard-faced men like our all-majestic king rush by in their coaches, convincing themselves that they see nothing."

He all but spat the final word, the same furious glow illuminating his eyes – before he suddenly seemed to recall his surroundings.

"Forgive me, I –"

"_Non_." Came a soft voice at his ear. "Passion is no shame..."

The candles had burned low, leaving them in a shadowed half-light, and Marius felt his breath flutter across the other's lips at the danger presented by the darkness – now, when they were close enough they might brush skin to skin... connected by warm, shaking breaths and heavily lidded eyes...

Suddenly Enjolras seemed to shake himself free.

"I wish more thought as you – many at the university consider me an extremist –"

"I couldn't think why..." Marius muttered, still lost somewhere in the spell. "It's what you think right..."

Their eyes met once again, only briefly, before the gaze was torn – this time by the darker pair.

"It's late... We can speak longer in the morning."

"_Oui."_

_"_Er – _Bonne nuit."_

_"Vous aussi."_

Marius turned quickly and made for the gilded doors – never noticing the way the blonde youth above gnawed at his own lips, his hands shaking until they threatened to rend the tome that he held protectively...

"By the way –"

Marius spun around, brown eyes nervous –

"It's Julien. Julien Enjolras."

* * *

Rain splattered against the hallway windows, the storm knocking the trees about wildly... As a child, Marius had been terrified of foul weather, and often ran for the shelter of his aunt's skirts.

Tonight it was a shelter in itself.

His knuckles whitened around the stem of the candelabra, praying that no night-walking servant would note it's absence from the hall, and begin to search...

The house had sixteen guest bedrooms – a thoroughly ridiculous excess in his opinion. The days of elaborate guest affairs were long gone... but perhaps it was yet another of his guardian's desperate attempts to cling to the past.

No matter.

His heart battering at his rib cage, the boy wrapped a pale hand around the engraved doorknob, every resolve nearly shattering with the click of the latch...

He slid through the opening like a cat, eyes fixing upon Apollo where he stood by the fire, disheveled and startled by the intrusion.

There was no need for words. Marius set the candles down with a trembling hand, crossed the embroidered rug in three strides, and made his claim. There was no finesse, no grandeur, just an immediate, needing press of lips, gradually allowing mouths to open and tongues to explore frantically.

They were both shaking now, Marius realized numbly – Enjolras had his hands fisted in the fabric of his vest, and all the dark-eyed boy could think to do was wrap his arms tightly and hold him, drag his hands through lucisous blonde curls...

The force of their lips drove them into movement, until they spilled onto the bed together – Enjolras on his back and Marius on Enjolras.

The need for air finally became undeniable, and they broke apart with gasps, chests heaving. Marius drew his lips down the other's throat, pausing to lap feverishly at the hollow as firm hands pulled at his waistcoat and the shirt underneath – just a body screaming to another, _take me, and take me now – _

The moments flew by, nothing but heated lips crashing into contact, sweat mingling with sweat, shirts wrenched from pale shoulders by desperate hands – until Marius found himself slumped over his bedfellow like a ram, and the boy was shaking underneath him, and crying out in a way that wasn't quite fear, wasn't quite pain...

"_Mon Dieu, Julien..." _he murmured softly, grasping his shoulders and pushing himself forward – The skin of his belly slipped along the other's back, and a burst of light exploded behind his eyes, forcing him to keep still a moment as his heart and organs settled...

"_Jesu ... ne qui aime de nouveau, s'il vous plaît..."_

A spark of ice stabbed into Marius' gut, but could do nothing to cool the heat in his veins.

_"Oh mon dieu - je suis désolé - vous êtes-"_

Enjolras fought for a breath, before catching one of the hands that rode his shoulders and squeezing. Marius thought his heart might have caught in his throat...

"_Vais bien ... seulement m'avez fait peur..."_

The only answer was soft graze of lips along the shell of his ear, a nuzzle at a few curls...

Marius jolted his hips again, and the firestorm in his body only seemed to worsen –delightfully so – leaving him panting and clutching at any piece of warm skin he might reach. It tasted like salt under his tongue, felt slick under his hands, and the thought of how it must seem to the beauty twisting underneath him – to be trapped in someone's arms, out of control for once, pushed into that storm... Marius felt his eyes roll back and threw himself into the effort, frantic – his tongue fluttered delicately against darkened lips, every sensation of pleasure beginning to grow unbearable, until there was nothing to be done but muffle his screams into a warm neck and cling to the last threads of sanity, as his Apollo clenched at his hands and ground himself into the bedcovers, moaning...

He felt himself drift back together from the pieces he'd been shattered into, sweat dripping and each breath coming shakily.

"Julien..."

There was an agonizing pause, giving him ample time to panic- he'd only realized what that internal tension must have meant, and it was enough to make him wish he could curl up like a tortise and never have to face him again... And still, just to look at him... he couldn't fathom being the first to drag his hands through those curls, to hold his hips as they moved like animals, to kiss his neck as he calmed...

"Mmm..?"

"'M... 'm sorry... I didn' know..."

The blonde sighed heavily, turned slowly on his back, and put an end to Marius' pleas for forgiveness by filling his mouth with wet tongue and pulling him close.

**TBC**

**A.N. – Now, for any of you who thought that happened a bit fast - good. That's **

**what you're supposed to think. Because this isn't affection, not yet. It's sexual tension, but we'll get to the romantic stuff – I promise!**

**Remember to review!**

**Translations:**

****_la bonne société - _good society

_Dieu - _God

_Grand-pere - _Grandfather

_Tante - _Aunt

_et son fils - _And son

_Enchanté, m'seigur - _a polite, formal greeting

_crabes - _cooked crab

_canard à l'orange et gelée de champagne - _roast duck with orange and champagne jelly

_Oui - _Yes.

_Bonsoir - _Good evening

_Et vous - _And you.

_Non - _No.

_Bonne nuit - _Good night

_Vous aussi - _You too.

_Mon Dieu - _Oh my God / My God

_Jesu ... ne qui aime de nouveau, s'il vous plaît - _Jesus... Not like that again, please...

_Oh mon dieu - je suis désolé - vous êtes - _Oh my God - I'm sorry - You're -

_Vais bien ... seulement m'avez fait peur... - _'m fine... just got scared...


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

"Brandy?"

The Baron nodded his assent, and turned back to admiring the dueling pistols displayed above the mantelpiece.

"Impressive, _m'sieur._"

Gillenormand tightened his lips, and stoppered the decanter.

"Pay it no mind – Worthless trinkets -"

"Colonel... G. Pont..."

"As I said –" he cut his guest off quickly, before the rest of that wretched name could be read from the brass etching. "No matter. They're kept only for ornamentation."

"A relation?" The baron mused, with a gulp of burning liquor.

"Not any that I wish to discuss –" he pushed forward, with the hope that he might be understood, but the baron was not the most tactful of men.

"Ah, a deserter then? Or a spy turned –"

"Certainly not!" Gillenormand snapped, his patience worn thin. "The man carried several... dangerous views of the country – some that I would rather not have spoken of beneath my roof. Not before any... impressionable... offspring, that is."

The sudden glow of understanding in the other's face brought him some relief.

"Forgive me, _m'sieur. _I assure you, I share your sentiments exceedingly. Exactly where and when the republican ravings of the butcher Robespierre crept into a respectable household, I will never know..."

"Perhaps you had best censor the boy's studies – I've certainly done my best, but still... the occasional mutter, question –"

"Ah, that's how it begins _mon ami_ – just a stirring of the air, and then one morning he'll leap down the stairs waving some latin tome, and screaming over freedom and brotherhood!"

"You appear to speak from experience." Gllenormand muttered with a slight chuckle.

"Indeed." the baron grumbled back. "Don't believe I haven't tried to pound some sense within his head, distract him – Christ above, I even sent him off to a _maison de tolérance _with five hundred francs in his pocket!"

"And?"

"And my contacts inform me that he immediately walked out the back, and handed every sou to the first _gamin_ he encountered! Imagine, five hundred francs at La Triata's in Paris! Sometimes I wonder if he has any passions besides his darling _Patria_!"

* * *

"We could take some weeks to hunt in Dourdan..." Marius sighed, caressing a pale shoulder as he basked in the glow from blue eyes. "Few would find that suspect."

Enjolras merely answered with a slight smile that sent thrills racing up the boy's spine.

"And how often would we see the outside of the bedchamber?"

He grinned, dark eyes flashing, and propping his head up, mouthed at the other's lips.

"Never."

A thumb slid across his shaved cheek, pulling him closer, and a murmur escaped them both as skin met skin beneath the sheets...

"S-so..." Marius finally gasped between the assaults on his mouth, "Gévaudan, Gascony, P-Pr-Provence – _Dieu, arrête ça!_" he laughed, squirming as lips and a hot tongue played with the skin of his neck, working down his collarbone and over his chest –

"_Oh Mon D – Julien!"_

"_Calme... Calme maintenant, mon amour..._"

Marius quivered at the endearment and held himself still against the boy's mouth, his breath warm on his skin, the embroidery on the cushions scratching gently at his back, his arms wrangling a pillow behind his head and his heart racing, the candlelight playing over their bodies...

Much later, as he played idly with gold curls – utterly addicting – a voice murmured by his neck;

"Come to Paris. Let me show you the greater part of the nation."

In another place, another time, he might have protested, found excuses.

But infatuation is something powerful, particularly to the young, and not even the wisest have ever quite understood it's sway.

* * *

The house lay quiet in the blackness, and no one noted Monsieur Gillenormand's twenty-two year old grandson prowling like a footpad through the halls of his own home.

Over the marble mantel, the twin guns lay innocuous in their bed of mahogany and forest velvet. Marius noted the way his hands shook ever so faintly as they lowered the lid gently. Even after so many years, it still seemed a crime to touch them...

The box was removed and wrapped gingerly in a saddle bag between two garish cushions – the only good that would ever come of them, he thought with a smirk, before creeping back into the front hall.

The only evidence of his presence was the outline of dust that remained on the mantel.

* * *

Another sin in life, the youth realized gradually, was that life had a habit of making certain aspects of itself quite invisible for those who did not wish to see – and had the francs to pay for the privilege.

It was moments before dawn when their horses reached the capital, as sweat-drenched and exhausted as their riders, and the city which unfurled beneath the sun was already quite awake.

They sold the mounts immediately, twenty francs for each, and proceeded on foot, hands clasped in the semi-dark – one to lead, one to follow.

Neither spoke, terrified of destroying whatever it was, whatever slender, glistening thread connected them.

The city was flooded with the early light by the time they reached the main streets, and beggars choked the boulevards. Several gendarmes on horseback charged by, and Marius felt his belly leap into his mouth as a pair of ragged children were nearly trampled beneath the hooves. No one else on the street seemed to take the slightest notice.

"You see?" Enjolras muttered at his ear. "They don't wish to know unless it touches their own gilded nostrils. Besides, this is nothing. By noon the carriages won't even be able to move through the masses."

They all but waded through the mud left from the previous night's storm caked over the ground like sludge, darting through a shadowed arch that rang with the skitterings of rats and the occasional whimper of some wretch unseen.

"Where are we going – "

"In good time – food first."

A sapphire silk franc purse seemed to materialize in his hands, initials embroidered in silver, and Marius found himself staring mute in mild indignation.

"Is that –"

"_Oui._" the other replied, smiling slightly. "You must forgive me – you're a light sleeper, and I couldn't resist."

Marius couldn't help but return the grin with a shove.

_"Espiègle vous!_"

The tease earned him a playful brush of the lips, garnering several strange glances from passersby in their carriages, though the beggars seemed hardly to mind – it was reality to them.

Within the next ten minutes they had procured a couple of rather hard brioches from an old woman near one of the public gardens, and leaned against a brick wall in the sun, chewing determinedly and laughing at their efforts.

Marius had only just managed to tear off a rather large chunk with his teeth and was about to share his victory, when a child's whimper cut through the morning like the scent of blood.

He looked about six years old, but only just – too young to have truly merited receiving the end of a rifle butt at the back of his head.

Fury licked through every vein, yet as he made to come off the wall, a hand seized his arm.

"No."

"But-!"

"Truly. If you go to him now, he'll only spit at you for doing the saving for him."

"But he's only –!"

"Marius, there's no such thing as a child, not among the poor!"

Shaking now, he glanced down at the clump of bread, and slowly allowed his dark eyes to travel back to the small creature lifting himself painfully from the cobbles...

"No –"

"So stop me-!"

"Marius, listen – hand that to him, and he'll bite you like a dog. Throw it in there -"

He nodded at the public fountain not far away. " – and be certain he's watching you."

Moments later, as the child swallowed grimy chunks of wet pastry with the strength of a little wolf, Marius felt a pair of hands seize his own and wrap his arms about broad shoulders, before lips nuzzled his ear.

"You see now, _amour_?"

**TBC**

**A.N. – Here are the translations, which I apologize for not placing in the last chapter!**

_mon ami_ – my friend

_maison de tolérance_ – a brothel

_gamin_- A street urchin

_Dieu, arrête ça!_ – God, stop it!

_Calme... Calme maintenant, mon amour..._ – Quiet... Quiet now, my love...

_Espiègle vous!_ – You minx!

**Hope you enjoyed it! Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N. – thanks to those who took the time to review! Much love and affection, and a nice, long chapter 3!**

**To any legitimate french speakers, I apologize now for any glaring errors that may have caused you to look at the page in confusion or giggle a little bit. :p**

**And now -**

It was noon by the time they reached the place. It was all little more than a twisted, shambling hovel with a slatted roof and three broken windows. From inside could be heard the wail of untended children, and Marius nervously bit his lip.

To be told of injustice and poverty, and to speak of it at a distance was all quite well, but when faced with it directly...

The door creaked as Enjolras lead him across the threshold, up a square-winding staircase and down a short corridor, into a garret which was barely large enough to deserve the title. Yellowed, rotting paper peeled from the walls, and several stains of questionable origin were splattered over the floorboards – and yet, in a moment of the purest, loveliest irony, beams of sunlight spilled down from a tiny window near the ceiling, bathing the room in a bright golden sheen...

Neither had the chance to speak a word before lips crashed into contact, and Marius shoved his sweetheart to the pallet on the floor before flopping down himself, tongue thrusting and hips rocking...

* * *

Dead silence echoed through the _salon_, and Monsieur Gillenormand waved away the terrified _femme de chambre _with a grim expression.

Alexandrine burst into wild tears, while the baron merely ground his teeth and paced before the mantel, it's ornamentation conspicuously lacking.

"Whatever action you choose, M'sieur, I wish it understood that I am blameless in –"

"Blameless?!" Gillenormand exploded, eliciting further sobs from his daughter.

"In what way do you call yourself blameless?! When it was your damned offspring who debauched – yes, _debauched _my –!"

"You dare, sir?!" interrupted the other, red-faced and infuriated.

"Indeed! You heard the girl – one bed un-slept in, and – and –" Age and modesty locked his tongue, though the unspoken finish was known to everyone in the room. One bed un-slept in, and stains smearing the rumpled sheets of the other.

"That is hardly confirmation of my son's guilt in the matter, M'sieur!" the baron finally spluttered, scrambling for what he could see would be the final shreds of his family name. "For all that we are certain of, there is every possible chance that it was -!"

"M'sieur, let me assure you - have every faith in my grandson's continued chastity! I have raised that boy since he took his first breath, and the role of the tempter is quite beyond him!"

* * *

_"Oohhh... foutre... foutre-moi..."_

"_Chut_..."

It was pointless to ask for silence though, utterly pointless... Marius groaned heavily and struggled to keep a hold upon the writhing body in his lap as he trembled with his own lust. A sweat-drenched shoulder suddenly presented itself so beautifully, and without a thought he sank his teeth into the pale flesh... A pity... he'd lost nearly all of his southern color, and turned white with the Parisian fog...

Enjolras moaned and lurched forward, both their hands tangled between his thighs, shuddering without any pretense at control as Marius nuzzled roughly at his ear –

_"C'est ça, ma chérie - cum. Je suis juste ici - juste foutre..._"

Both of them were panting heavily now, wet flesh slapped wet flesh, hands twisted – around him, inside him – and wails of completion soared to the cracked ceiling as the boy came like an animal over the blankets...

Pants turned to gasps as they slumped down together in a tangle of softened limbs, idly exchanging kisses and caresses, just for the sake of feeling skin... And then Marius, with his head cushioned on Enjolras' belly, began to giggle like a schoolgirl, the other not long to follow.

Neither could have explained what was quite so ludicrous – perhaps their surroundings, perhaps the filthy words that had escaped them moments before, perhaps the fact that they had known each other little more than a day...

"So," Marius crooned, between peppering kisses to a heaving chest, "What does your _Patria_ think of us?"

A rare smile broke across Enjolras' beautiful face, as his fingers teased cropped, dark hair...

"My darling _Patria_... is insanely jealous... And she'd... rather..." Both were fighting for dominance in the kiss, "I returned to the... the university library... and read some dull treatise on regicide."

Marius grinned, and mouthed golden eyelashes.

"That... would be _such _a waste..."

* * *

After two hours cavorting in the bedroom, the streets outside seemed darker and more grim than Marius had initially recalled – though by then it was early evening, and the life that conceals itself by day had begun to creep from its' hiding places, ready to stalk its' prey by the light of the moon...

Beggars and footpads lined the side avenues, their eyes like daggers as they passed, and Marius had to fight the childish urge to cling to his sweetheart for courage.

Mud slid beneath their boots, catcalls and wails of hungry children filled the semi-dark, as well as the brawing and crowing of hundreds of ownerless animals...

Then the open square poured out before them, and with the arrival of two well-dressed young men, the alleys vomited up a horde of prostitutes.

"Three sous for the hour, m'love!"

"And for the same price, I'll make it two!"

"They'll leave you hangin'! Take me m'sieur, I'll be your spaniel!" a young woman howled over the others and flung herself at Enjolras with a passion; who promptly threw her right back into the arms of her sisters, along with a handful of coins over the cobblestone street.

"Spare yourselves the trouble, mam'selles."

As the girls squabbled over the money, he snatched up Marius' hand, and the two made quickly for a nearby street...

The bright lights were a welcome arrival, and as the doors of the Musain closed behind them, the scent of wine, melting candles, and – reasonably clean – humanity settled in the warm air like a blanket.

"Upstairs." He murmured, with a nod of his golden head...

Above, the room swelled with young men of means – their watches polished, their coats fitted – who clustered about the billiard table, some intent upon the duel between the players, and others laughing uproariously at something stated by their apparently long-drunk fellows.

It was one of these inebriates who, upon spotting the new comers, gave a sputtering whistle to the rest.

"Lo, brethren – Apollo returns to our midst!"

There was a chorus of intoxicated cheering, and with a smirk Enjolras leaped upon the tabletop, scuffing the green velvet and knocking the balls asunder, much to the chagrin of the players, though few noticed otherwise.

The image did indeed conjure the notion of worshippers at the feet of their idol, and Marius was content to simply lean in the doorjamb and watch, with the faintest smile of possessive pride...

"Budge over, Bouge! We ain't awll tall as you!" came a chesty voice from somewhere around his waist, and with a slight shock he found himself being addressed by a grubby-faced _gamin_ of eight or nine years – though the dirt smearing his face and hair was somewhat negated by his bright blue eyes, which had somehow avoided the age brought by a hard life, and still maintained their childish gleam.

And then, the eyes in question were no longer fixed upon him reproachfully but had flooded with a light of wild excitement, and the little boy tore across the room with all the boundless energy of his age.

"_Enjolras!_"

Good-natured laughter exploded at his outburst, and a dark-haired student with black eyes picked him up with a grin, flinging his small body up to the god upon the billiard table.

Enjolras ruffled the child's sandy hair as he wrapped his stick-like limbs about his neck and chest, monkey-fashion, and clung for dear life, grinning broadly.

"Go awn, Apollo! Tell 'em of the revolution!"

Blue eyes flashed to Marius' own, the essence of a smile carried within – Marius made the answer clear upon his own lips.

* * *

_Five Months Later_

The sea of faces swarmed at his feet, screaming their assent on his every word – he doubted many were even aware of what he spoke of.

It didn't matter, Enjolras would say later. They were present and passionate. That was enough.

"And when you fight for a mouthful, where are the leaders of this country?! Where is the all-sainted king?!" his Apollo was roaring to the assembled beggars and streetfolk, who all shouted back their own responses. Marius cut in quickly, before the insanity grew out of hand.

"Only one man – General Lamarque – speaks for every soul of the land!"

"And he's not long for the world!"

The peasants screamed in fury.

"How long then, before we declare the Judgment Day?!"

"Before we cut the fat ones down to size?!"

_That _elicited a response from the crowd, and with a flicker of trepidation Marius realized they were nearing the frenzy of a mob...

Yet at his side, he noticed Enjolras fresh and fairly glowing, the familiar ecstasy brought by the cause pouring from his every fibre...

* * *

Not far away, a somber black carriage stood parked by the side road – a respectful distance from the residence of a dying man, which these young... miscreants, clearly had no thought for.

Gillenormand felt the cords of his neck bulge at the familiar figures crowning the podium – so it was true then... enemies of the state by day, Hadrian and Antonius by night – or so it was rumored.

Pah. What rumor? The evidence mocked him in the face – it was all in their stance, their casual brushing and petting, the too long gazes...

And paired with this! This – madness, against the rightful sovereign! Had the boy taken leave of every wit he possessed, when that golden-curled incubus slithered through their door so many months ago?!

Shots rang out as the gendarmes poured out over the street, and as the mob scattered like panicked sheep, the man scrambled from his carriage and pushed his way into the crowd...

As the police swarmed about, warning shots sweeping overhead, the students swam through the crowd, hurriedly assuring them of their continued effort.

"Tomorrow, meet again at General Lamarque's house – bring your friends-!"

"_Marius_!"

Surprisingly strong hands latched onto the lapels of his waistcoat, and shook him like a kitten.

"Grandfather -?!"

"Do you have any idea of the shame you bring on our family?! You're behaving like a child!"

Suddenly the folds of fabric parted, revealing the gilded handle of a dueling pistol both men knew only two well, inscribed with the monogram of Colonel Georges Pontmercy...

Immediately, Gillenormand seemed to feel his age, and retreated to the relative safety of his carriage. More shots were fired outside, and he seemed to feel the chill in his old blood as he watched his grandson join hands with the baron's spawn, both screaming with the crowd.

"_Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive la France!..."_

* * *

"We have two hours before the meeting –"

"I told you – Bousset can't make it to the arms collectors, so I'll have to –"

"You know perfectly well that Bousset is in bed with Ursule de Lacrisole, and not studying, ill, or whatever _merde_ he told you! Take some time! Please?!" he begged pitifully, forcing his dark eyes to assume the most pathetic expression possible.

"Marius, we're but inches away! I'm sorry, but our personal... affairs must wait!"

The boy groaned quietly.

It truly wasn't fair –Granted, Enjolras had been screaming little other than _liberté, equalité, fraternité, et la mort _for the past week, yet if he could afford to have his waistcoats fitted and _pain aux raisins _on the table in the morning, then surely he could find a moment or two for romantic ardor?

Even revolutionaries have lives.

Wild hope exploded in his chest as they mounted the rickety staircase, and slipped back into their sunlit hovel – only for the hope to shrivel and melt as the blonde knelt on the floor and began sketching on the sheets.

"What're you doing?"

"We need an... outline... of the Saint. Denis... to – Marius-?!"

His cry was elicited by the rather sudden fashion in which his bedmate had stripped himself to the skin and stretched over the mattress like a nude Adonis...

"I've heard tell –just rumor, mind you – that skin will hold the imprint of ink far better than cloth threads. Shall we see if the rumor holds any merit?"

Smirking now, Enjolras let his eyes fix on the other's face as a line of black ink traced down his tautening belly, startled by the slight scratch of the calligraphy pen on his flesh...

"Gods, you've got a wicked tongue, _bien-aimé_." he murmured, leaning in close as the nude body, splattered with ink, wrapped about his own clothed form like a many-legged spider.

* * *

Hours later, the streets had erupted in near pandemonium, as the word was carried from _gamin_ to _grisette_ and back again – General Lamarque lay cold in his death bed.

And where there should be mourning, respect for the dead – old women flung their furniture into the streets, girls and their mothers stitched relentlessly at massive squares of crimson fabric, and little boys hurled stones at passing bourgeois coaches. The chariot of Monsieur Gillenormand was no exception. Cold with fury, he remained calm until the coach reached the massive, marbled steps of the _Palais de Justice_, silent with the satisfaction that he alone was certain of at least one insurgent's near future...

* * *

"M'sieur... needless to say... with the sheer numbers being reported all over the city –"

"I don't need your excuses, Commander." the old aristocrat interrupted harshly. "I assure you, you'll know the boy on sight – he's not one to keep to the shadows..."

A grim light seemed to come over the man's countenance.

"No, he'll be there at the very front of the ranks, like any proper general – and once you've crushed the pathetic efforts of these little boys, playing at war – as we both know you will - then..."

He reached into the confines of his overcoat, and withdrew a large velvet purse, which landed heavily upon the desk and burst open, littering gold napoleons all across the scattered paperwork.

"... you will instruct your men to shoot on sight. The leader will not be martyred, imprisoned, or made an example of – he will be crushed quickly and rapidly, like an insect beneath your heel. That is _perfectly _clear, _oui_?

The Guardsman swallowed dryly, the reality of a world he had so long fought to remain ignorant of suddenly forcing it's way down his resisting throat...

"_Oui_, m'sieur. Perfectly."

**TBC.**

**A.N. – Sooo – thoughts? ;) Please review, it's all I have to live off of!**

**Translations:**

_Salon – _lounge, parlor

_femme de chambre – _Chambermaid

_Oohhh... foutre... foutre-moi... – _Oohhh – fuck – fuck me...

_Chut... – _hush...

_C'est ça, ma chérie - cum. Je suis juste ici - juste foutre... – _That's right, my darling – cum. I'm right here – just fuck...

_merde_ - shit

_pain aux raisins – _The direct translation – Raisin Bread – does not do this justice. Basically, it's a pastry made from brioche dough (which is significantly sweeter than regular bread) with raisins added, and rolled into a spiral shape similar to a cinnamon bun, with a sweet custard filling.

_bien-aimé – _sweetheart

_grisette – _a teenage girl of the working class


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N. – This is a slightly shorter chapter, but a lot takes place, so enjoy! Warning – some violence and blood towards the end.**

**All I can say is... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.**

_June 5__th__, 1832_

"Courfeyrac, you take the watch – and keep on your guard. They may attack before it's light. And –" Enjolras paused, and gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze.

"Keep the faith. The people won't abandon us – we're not alone."

_Not yet, _came the unspoken retort from every man in hearing, and it was with a shaking hand that he grasped Marius by the arm.

The youth had been maniacally absorbed in re-piling furniture, but the touch and the desperation in blue eyes brought him up short.

Trembling, he gave the faintest nod and followed him into the wine shop, their hands clasped.

Neither noted the pair of grey eyes following closely...

* * *

At fifty-three years, Valjean supposed all this was beneath him. This fire, this passion – this was all the flame of youth.

A desperate flame, flickering frantically in its death throes as it was doused with a rainstorm.

He was old, and a daughter waited at home for him – a child who, for years, thought he hung the sun in the sky every morning, for her alone.

The boys not three feet away were in the summer of life, with nothing in the world to lose but their own lives... and, perhaps, each other...

Some of those on the wall of mangled furniture had begun passing around some emerald glass bottles of dubious content, and were singing now – just a pastime to keep themselves in good spirits, now that the reaper stood on the door step.

It was a soft tune, and mournful in a curious way, as the boys accepted their ends and bathed in nostalgia for the lost past... though he could not help but notice the two who separated themselves from the clutch and slipped into an empty alley.

Well, he thought to himself joylessly, let each prepare to meet death in his own manner...

* * *

It was hardly the opulence they enjoyed their first night, nor the impoverished romance of every night after – yet Marius could never have explained why it was so perfect; that in an alley, the cobbles wet and muddy from the rain, they should tumble upon a dirt-streaked mattress and ravish each other.

Wet cloth came away like rags, pebbled skin soothed with rough caresses, and their lips were purple and bruised by the time Marius groaned and flung himself across the other's chest, dragging his mouth down pale skin, smeared lightly with mud... It was strange, how the fear of death stripped the last inhibitions from men, and left them with nothing but their base desires – and perhaps, that was when they were the most human, he considered silently, his mind wandering as Enjolras moaned and arched beneath his tongue...

* * *

Light stretched over the jagged scope of the wall of furniture, bleeding across the cobbles and glittering on the rain-pools that collected beneath every gutter.

As the revolutionaries roused themselves from their half-drunk stupor, their leader woke to the sun on his face, and his lover's fingers threading in his hair.

A fine beginning to a man's final day upon the earth.

* * *

_June 6__th__, 1832_

"_Canons!_"

Every student behind the flimsy wall of rubble felt his stomach leap into his throat, and fingers tightened around triggers and the hands of others...

"Fire!"

Hell was unleashed.

Gunpowder and dust choked the air as the report thundered, shards of wood and metal exploding outward and answered by chilling screams.

One could only fire blindly through the storm, and in everyone's mind the thought was the same;

_It's over._

In the midst of the melee, a greying man with fierce eyes threw aside his weapon and laid hands on every boy he could reach, forcing them back and away from the fire, his heart breaking with the steady assurance that the enemy was too great, and he couldn't save them all...

As if a confirmation, something heavy crashed upon his shoulders, knocking him to the cobblestones, at precisely the moment the _Garde National _spilled over the crumbling walls like an insect horde.

With a speed that belied his years, Valjean heaved the body onto his back – it was the dark-haired boy, blood pouring copiously from an unseen wound in his shoulder.

If he could spare one soul from the anguish and torment of the life they would all be condemned to, it would be enough...

* * *

The few straggling survivors managed to escape into the wine shop, scrambling up the half-destroyed stairs to the second floor – their meeting room... How fitting.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had dissolved into tears, the sheer helplessness of their own fates weighing upon them like stones – yet their grief did not last long. The silence stretched, cruelly - then came the report of nine rifles through the floorboards, and they fell down dead, blood spilling from their open mouths...

Shocked in spite of his own steel resolve, Enjolras staggered back to the window, clutching at the frame, despite the fact that he was the only insurgent without a wound.

Soldiers swarmed into the garret. It appeared that his unmarred status would not last much longer.

Shaking only a little, and betraying his humanity, Enjolras let his eyes wash hopelessly over the blood-soaked street a final time, searching desperately in his last moments for a face that had likely been destroyed with all the others, by wood and lead...

"_Visez_!"

"No!" came a voice above the others, and the soldiers parted, confused, as their commander pushed his way to the front of the pack.

His eyes went wide.

Late morning sunlight flooded through the open windows and the gaping holes left in every wall by the artillery, silhouetting against Enjolras' body, shining upon his hair, and beautifying him.

Many guardsmen that day would later tell their acquaintances, in voices of horror, it was akin to beholding a god...

The boy tightened his fingers around the bloodstained scrap of red cloth, and braced his feet on the cracked floorboards, as the guard raised his pistol, hand shaking wildly.

The gold felt heavy in his pocket.

"I'm sorry..." he choked out, and squeezed the trigger.

_Bang_

A strangled noise forced its way from the victim's throat, but he remained on his feet...

_Bang_

Another cry, stronger this time. The bullet must have passed through, as all heard it hit the wall behind.

_Bang_

He staggered...

_Bang_

He slumped to the floor in front of the window, half-kneeling, blood dripping from his open mouth, eyes wide... Every man in the room, even the most hardened, felt sick at the sight...

_Bang_

A sound like a choked cough and moan ripped through him with as much violence as the bullet, wrenching his head back, crimson drops splattering the wall...

_Bang_

_Bang_

_Bang_

Something seemed to shift in the room as he fell back, blue eyes open and hazy, though the heaving of his chest beneath the blood-soaked fabric of his clothing betrayed his survival.

"_Hélas, nous ne pouvons pas permettre que_..." the commander mumbled, though his voice and hands shook without control, and many of his men felt their faces pale as he braced a gleaming black shoe against the boy's stomach, and with a hard shove sent him tumbling out the open window to crash upon the cobbles with a meaty thud.

The soldier leaned out carefully, his face blanching as he watched the mangled figure twist on the stones for a moment, struggling for a final breath, before he seemed to wilt, and lay still.

"So much for revolution," the guard muttered softly, and took the gun barrel into his mouth.

**A.N. – I know you all hate me, but please – hold onto the torches and pitchforks for a little while longer! There is much more to come!**

**Translations:**

_Canons – _Cannons (obviously)

_Garde National – _National Guard

_Visez_! – Aim!

_Hélas, nous ne pouvons pas permettre que_... – Alas, we can't allow that...


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N.- And now, the plot grows thicker – warning to any sensitive readers, there are some descriptions of physical injury that could be triggering for some people.**

**Otherwise, read on – and review!**

The world swam before Marius' eyes like water on a mirror – clear one moment, then gone the next... Someone smoothed his hair back...

Instantly it all rushed into his mind like a storm – the soldiers, the cannons, the blood, the throbbing pain in his shoulder and his legs... And... no... oh no...

"Wha- Who –Who are you?! What's- No – No, Julien! _Julien_!_ No_!"

He was screaming like a mad-man, until an unspeakably strong hand clapped down over his mouth, nearly to the point of smothering him.

"You're away now – you're quite safe –" murmured a male voice from somewhere above. "They'll be searching for survivors; you'll have to be silent-!"

He barely heard the words, his dark eyes still roving wildly as he thrashed atop what had once surely been a rather lovely dining table, but now bore uncountable scratches and scuff-marks...

Finally he exhausted himself, and gasped for breath as soon as he was permitted, his eyes bulging as he drank in the air, though the panic remained evident on his face.

"J- Ju – _Where is he?! What have they done?!_"

"The barricades have been demolished –"

"_Don't let them – please –!_"

A hand touched his forehead... the skin was calloused to the point of leather...

"I'll do all I can – Now keep still a moment... this will help you sleep..."

His jaws were eased open, and something bitter trickled over his tongue, and he choked the moment it hit his throat...

* * *

It hurt to breathe, yet however much he tried, Enjolras couldn't force himself to cease.

Sometimes he just sighed deeply, praying that it might bring his Hell to an end... instead, molten iron forced it's way up his throat, and he was left trembling from the pain, lacking the breath and strength to scream.

His back ached, horrendously. Both shoulders throbbed. His gut burned, and while one ear felt as though it had been skinned and rubbed on sand, the other was frigid as ice... No, no he was cold all over... but he could feel the sweat dripping down his neck...

Whatever the stickiness was beneath his cheek, it seemed to have clumped his eyelashes... welled into his hair... he'd always hated those damn curls. The others had never understood, just as they had never contemplated his intolerance of the fairer sex – for which reason he had long since deemed it a curse to wear the face of a young god... But he'd always kept the curls, merely to suit others. His mother first... she'd adored them when he'd been a child... At that age they had hung to his shoulders in thick ringlets, and more than one guest to the _maison, _watching as he played in the gardens, gowned and hair flying, had mistaken him for the baron's daughter...

He had sawed them all off when he was eight years old, already disgusted by the flow of sniveling attention bought by beauty, much to his mother's dismay... his father however, had been greatly relived that his son had finally entered into some form of masculinity... A relief that was to prove futile when he began attending the university, and still continually refused the company of women - He had even turned down the prospect of a night at one of the more elite Paris brothels, and earned himself a schoolboy beating... Clutching the bedpost until his knuckles went white, eyes screwed shut as his father railed vehemence about God-fear and sin and the family name, the blows raining down, and his mother weeping in her boudoir, amidst her pinned butterflies and perfume... She always carried the scent of apples, wore the blossoms... Was she weeping now?

A flash of pain shot through his belly, and his eyes bulged, his lips trembling in a soundless cry as every muscle screamed, pleaded to cringe away, to curl up and stifle the agony – yet his back refused to obey the begging shrieks of his mind, and the realization of what this betrayal must mean sent a chill skittering across his flesh...

_Marius? If you're there, I- I don't want – I can't die like this... I- I'm frightened love... Isn't that strange? But maybe I am a coward after all... A little boy, playing at war... Where are you, please... where are you? Are you there? Can you hear me?_

Suddenly light flooded his hazy vision, and cold fingers dug into the flesh of his neck.

He could feel his own pulse beneath the touch – a weak, rapid flutter, like the wings of a butterfly his mother had stabbed to a card... Not quite dead...

"Damn..." growled a voice from somewhere above. "_L'idiot_..."

A thin, strangled noise bursting from his iron-lined throat, Enjolras flexed his blued fingers painfully in a desperate attempt to beg for the first time in his life. The movement – if it was seen at all – was ignored.

"Well, it can't be helped – Aubuchon, snap his neck."

_What?! No – No, not like this, not like this -!_

Meaty hands fastened around his throat, as his lips moved silently, frantically –

_"Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié, que ton règne vienne, que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre_ –"

"Wait."

Blue eyes wide as moons stared up from the cobbles, the lids splattered and sticky with blood...

"Perhaps... some good can be had of this after all. Get him in the coach."

Enjolras could have sobbed, until the same thick-skinned hands rolled him over and lifted him without care for his hurts, and the world was swallowed by darkness as he shuddered at the feel of his own bones scraping and cracking beneath blanching skin...

* * *

Marius awoke to an angel's face.

Three angels, actually.

No, six.

He'd always loved that painting, as a child... imagining that they could watch over him from their places on the ceiling as he slept...

They seemed petty, now that he'd encountered the genuine article...

The thought sank deeper into his mind, and a few tears spilled helplessly as he turned his face into the pillow – a few blurred shapes swam into focus. A yellow pull-horse, a few dusty toys from a half-forgotten childhood...

"_Oh dieu merci..._ hush, hush now..." came the whisper from overhead, as a cool hand rested itself on his forehead, and a familiar face swam into view.

**A.N. – Thoughts? Please review!**

**Translations – **

_L'idiot_ – The idiot.

_Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié, que ton règne vienne, que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre_ – The first several lines of the Lord's prayer

_Oh dieu merci – _Oh thank God


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N.- Longer update! Thanks to all those who reviewed! Shout out in particular to sadisticscribbles and daisythecoder! **

**Enjoy!**

It was a strange fact, Monsieur Belcourt mused to himself, that soldiers recieved all the glory and all the pity for their suffering in war. It certainly wasn't as if they didn't deserve it – but who considered the men who dug the bullets from their flesh, who set their shattered bones and blotted their wounds with linen?

He'd seen horrors – an artilleryman with half his head blown away during the battle of Ligny, a sniper with his intestines spilling. The boy sprawled before him was certainly damaged, though it was hardly enough to shock him.

To his credit, the youth tried to take his pain like a man – an admirable feat when he was strapped down to a wooden table in a basement kitchen, splints immobilizing over half his body, and his torso laced tightly into a bone-hard contraption that resembled a woman's corset – with the addition of nine strips of heavy steel...

"Sabot!" he roared to one of his aides. "For the love of God, man, do something about that ear! He's bleeding out like a pig!"

He did as ordered, slicing away the shattered cartilage with easy efficiency, and the boy screamed into the gag bound around his mouth. Belcourt couldn't help but be impressed - it had been nearly twenty minutes since the last outburst. Even so, the fabric between his teeth was soaked in saliva, and not a small amount of blood. Tooth marks dotted his lower lip. His eyelids had slipped shut, and a slight flicker and a frown was his only sign of consciousness when a hand grasped his shoulder.

"Only two bullets left – you'll have to tolerate that without brandy. I'll need your head clear."

His second assistant glanced up, his spectacles marred by flecks of crimson.

"Hold him – I don't wish to have to reset the braces..."

They clamped his limbs down obediently as Belcourt probed the bruising skin, using the boy's sounds of complaint as a gauge for the correct spot...

The muscles always tensed automatically when the forceps pushed them aside, and he was obliged to hold the wound open with his fingers to ease the way. It was unsurprising when the answering moan broke through the air, muffled only slightly by a scrap of black linen.

"Steady lad - steady..." Sabot muttered, his knuckles whitening with the effort of restraining him to the table, despite his weakened state and five fractured bones...

_"Maudit!_" the physician cursed quietly. "It's caught behind the ball-joint... Choleon, give it a yank –"

The scream was deafening as the socket was steadily pulled loose, and Belcourt dug inside with his forceps – then, with a shudder, blue eyes rolled back to reveal strips of white, and the boy went limp over the table.

"Holy Mary! Belcourt, what- !"

"Compose yourself, _m'sieur_." he muttered to the aged aristocrat. "It's only a faint."

Gillenormand merely replied with a scowl.

"And you'd best hope that's the worst of it. I shall be above stairs, should anything arise."

The oak door slammed shut behind him with a thud.

* * *

_Four Days Later_

The stairs spun, and Marius hurriedly seized at the bannister. A flesh wound in his thigh was horrid enough – he could certainly do without the addition of a broken femur...

The sound of the piano was still drifting up from the main parlor, and it was with a wave of trepidation that he pushed the double doors open – the wounds were still raw, and he no desire to relate the incident before a wide-eyed, shallow audience –

The music ceased instantaneously, and a pretty girl leapt from the chair, silk skirts rustling and a soft pink flush coloring her cheeks.

"Oh – _M'sieur_, I –!"

"Forgive me – " his grandfather's voice cut across from chairs by the window, where he appeared to have been in some form of conversation with a strangely familiar grey-eyed gentleman...

"May I formally present my grandson..."

The necessary etiquette and stiff convention followed, but Marius heard none of it, studying the man's face frantically...

"_Monsieur_ _et Mademoiselle _Fauchelevent - Pray, continue _ma chere_ – " he urged the girl gently. "There can be no one here to object to such a lovely voice."

She smiled shyly and resumed her place, slender fingers gliding over the ivory keys.

Marius sank into one of the empty chairs by the elder guest, watching her with an effort at detachment. A difficult task – not because of her doll-like beauty, but rather the song which poured softly from her shell-pink lips – a gentle tune about snow melting to tears and a sun setting to sleep...

A tear had slipped from his eye before he could prevent it.

"_M'sieur_?" came a muttered query from his right as a strong hand – too strong – gently grasped his forearm. The man's eyes – better suited to a protective animal, Marius considered silently – wore a look of what he could only call paternal concern.

"I- I'm well – it's been a difficult week..."

Concern gave way to sympathy.

"I know... The _Rue St. Denis_?"

"_O-Oui, _how –"

Suddenly the memories of that wretched morning came flooding back –

"_Oh mon dieu – M'sieur,_ I-"

"No no, give me no thanks – it was nothing but common decency... And I had no wish to see a boy chained to a rock for the reminder of his existence, merely for defending those who are less fortunate..."

The words felt like a physical blow, and Marius all but trembled as he roused the courage to speak –

"_M'sieur, _I – Forgive me, I couldn't help but- do you know of- of any-"

His voice shook pitifully, and he was amazed that the man was capable of gleaning any kind of significance from the few audible words.

His grandfather fixed him with a black look...

"Unfortunately many deaths are reported yet unconfirmed, so there's very little that can be done to form a definitive roll of the lost – the only two that are certain to be deceased are the sons of a baron and a ship mercha – "

"Th- the son of a lord?"

"Alas, yes –" Gillenormand jumped into the conversation before Fauchelevent could reply.

"There was a good deal of argument between several gentlemen as to whose offspring it was, the body was close to unrecognizable – the artillery had resorted to any means possible, and who could blame them by that point; gutting with bayonets, hurling bodies from the windows, some of them still alive – " all this was said in a low voice, with a cautious glance at the young lady, who merely continued with her playing, unawares.

"All the families were obliged to bring hair locks, or some form of identification – many of the faces were too mangled to be judged by sight. Take the one under question, for instance – shot eight times, so I'm told, and tossed from the second floor of that wretched café to the street; the body was shattered on impact –"

"So who claimed him?!" Marius cut in wildly, a sick sensation twisting his gut and his heart thumping painfully against his ribs...

Gillenormand tightened his lips, and appeared somewhat reluctant, if not nervous... Fauchelevent spoke before he could make any response.

"I'm told the Baron d'En –"

"Oh God -!" Marius gasped hoarsely, bringing every person in the room to a pause – the girl even ceased her playing.

"I-I told him – _oh mon dieu, _I told him to– "

"Ah yes, I had forgotten they were acquainted- you must for-"

"No need _m'sieur, _no need." The guest waved him silent gently. "I am no stranger to grief... Forgive us _m'sieur, _we intrude upon your time. Cosette."

The girl nodded, and stood obediently.

"Please call again _m'sieur_ – and do not hesitate to allow your charming _précieux _to accompany you."

"_Merci, M'sieur_. _Bonsoir."_

The doors closed behind them.

Gillenormand settled himself back into the velvet wing-chair, and set an engraved pipe alight.

"Quite an engaging young lady... Not that you would have noticed, you hardly glanced at her..."

Marius couldn't speak, only stared at his hands.

"Dinner will be at eight – but I don't suppose you'll be hungry... again?"

Still there was no response.

"_Saint-Christ_!" the man roared, surging to his feet and striking the boy across the face – a streak of red was left across a freckled cheek by his signet ring.

"This childishness has continued for long enough! Tomorrow morning I'll expect you to be presentable at the very least, and you will begin to act in a manner befitting your station and the stature of this family!"

He released his hold on the boy's cravat –the victim hardly seemed to notice, and the tears swimming in vacant brown eyes only seemed to enrage him further.

"Out! Upstairs, and out of my sight!"

He obeyed, moving like something within an absinthe hallucination.

The staircase seemed to melt beneath his feet, and suddenly he was on the second landing, but couldn't remember how he got there...

His head turned slightly, and a ragged breath escaped him at the sight of his own haggard reflection in the gilded mirror –

A tear escaped, finally.

_It had been dawn, and the noises of the waking barricade mere feet away came drifting to his ears, but he chose not to hear._

_Julien was still asleep, and the sun had settled over their bare skin – pounded raw from the rainfall, and smeared with mud from the filthy, cotton mattress that they had claimed for the night... His gold hair glinted in the rays, still damp, and Marius was unable to resist twisting a few curls through his fingers._

_"Mmm..."_

_His lips pressed to the nape of his neck, taking in the scent – rain, wine, and something of apples... _

_"Marius..."_

_No, no, he wasn't going to spoil this by making it end – he caught his wrists and pinned him gently to their makeshift couch, nuzzling close..._

_"_Non – _Marius -!"_

_"_Chut..." _he murmured. _"Juste apprécier ce moment, s'il vous plaît?_"_

_"_Bien-aimé – _listen to me, please – I only – If- If we –"_

_"Stop it- tell me when we're victorious."_

_He was only half jesting._

_His darling gave him a look that made him wish to both smile and weep, and his last gentle memory from that wretched day was of long fingers carding through his hair..._

"DAMN!" he screamed wildly, tears running freely now as he stared at his image in pure hatred.

"DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!"

Two _femmes de ménage _shrieked and ran for shelter as he threw himself against the mirror, cracks spider-webbing from his body outward.

Blows rained down on the glass until he lay, exhausted, in a sea of glittering shards, bloody and sobbing...

* * *

"So how does he fare?"

The physician rolled his eyes, and tried to lay a hand on the youth's brow – not an easy task, as he was tossing his head fitfully, murmuring under his breath...

Gillenormand stepped back with a mutter of faint distaste, noting the blood clotted on the pallet and the sweat glistening under the candlelight.

"Hardly as well as I might wish."

"Can it be treated?"

"For now."

The old man clutched his walking stick in a chokehold.

"Perhaps I failed to make this perfectly clear, Belcourt – he's no use to me dead! I want daily reports – if you have to keep awake all night – "

It took a herculean amount of effort for Belcourt to prevent himself from planting his fist directly in the center of the man's wizened face.

" – sent for more laudanum. And for the love of God, keep him silent, or I'll sew his jaws together myself!"

"As you wish, _m'sieur."_ he growled quietly, listening to the short footsteps across the stones and the squeal of the door, before turning back to his charge and smoothing down blonde locks, darkened by flows of sweat.

**A.N. – So, I hope you all enjoyed! Please review and stay tuned for more!**

**Translations:**

_Maudit – _Damn

_ma chere – _my dear

_précieux - _treasure

_Saint-Christ – _Holy Christ

_Juste apprécier ce moment, s'il vous plaît? – _Just enjoy it, please?

_femmes de ménage – _Servants


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N. – Well, things are starting to get complicated... Hope you enjoy the latest installment! As always, review!**

Lucidity was overrated, Enjolras thought to himself blearily.

Fortunately, it only made itself apparent on a few occasions, between long stretches of blessed delirium, when he could forget...

Sometimes he wondered if God had finally deigned to show some pity and let him die, before he remembered that in the afterlife, pain was hardly likely to be so acute, if even existent.

Something brushed at his lips, and with a moan of relief he gulped down the water, a hand beneath his skull to steady him. At any other time he would have shoved them away, rather than be coddled, but for now he could let go of his pride.

A finger swiped away a few spilled drops, and he trembled as one arm was drawn out from beneath the swathe of blankets, and the sweat scrubbed away with some damp linen...

"Nnnn..."

"_Chut._" A low voice murmured, followed a quick, stabbing pain in his forearm, and a tingling as the blood streamed...

"Unnngh... M - Marius..."

"None of that," came the voice out of the dark, with a warning smack to his shoulder.

"Or you'll have far worse than a fever and a cracked spine, I can promise you."

* * *

"The – This chamber's beautiful."

Marius knew what his response should have been – _not half as lovely as you, ma cheri –_ but all he could choke out was "_Merci."_

She smiled slightly, and glanced into the unlit fireplace.

The classic forms of empty conversation followed – decor, social science, even the weather – until her father came from the opposite end of the room to fetch her. At a glare from his senior, Marius helped her slip into her cloak, the pale-blue gauze framing her face prettily, and she smiled again in that demure manner...

It was only once the room had been emptied that he sank back to the chaise, dark eyes glued miserably to the tapestried rug.

"Do you ever intend to make an effort?" shot a harsh voice from the chair by the windows. "It's wretchedly impolite to keep a lady in suspense –"

"For the love of God, we've known each other less than a week, and only because her father happened to save my hide!" the boy finally snapped.

"And to what effect is that? Successful matches are built on far less – "

"Like what?! Income?! Family connections to the crown?! I would be astonished if either were- "

"Moreover, she's a beauty –"

"She's a china doll, with as much mind as well!"

Green eyes glared at him from across the room, and he fought the gaze desperately.

"Well, I hope those perceptions alter, for your sake boy – her father and I discussed the matrimony details this morning."

Marius lifted his head, eyes widening –

"It seems the girl is rather taken with you. Needless to say, I did all in my power to assure him of your returned feelings – no doubt you'll recognize them soon. She'll look dazzling on your arm in Notre Dame. Not much in the way of a dowry, but she is at least _female_ –"

The boy's jaw fell.

"_How dare -!"_

"Oh come come, don't force me to appeal to your sense of chivalry, if such a thing exists. The girl's an angel, and hardly deserves to have her hopes crushed and her heart broken by a freckle-faced lad of twenty-two. Now enough of this nonsense. I'll expect you in the _salle à manger _within the hour."

And as he strode out of the room, with the air of a triumphant game-cock, Marius could only slump against the cushions of the couch, his whole body numb with icy fury and his mind spinning, grief, rage, and misery, all fighting for dominance...

* * *

"You take an oath, saying you'll heal the injured and protect the weak – and you think you'll be doing some grand thing, saving lives by the score, making a better world – and then you're in the heat of it, and it's all just blood and shit."

Belcourt narrowed his reddened eyes, as though something monumental had just been made clear to him, and took another long gulp from one of the six or so bottles scattered about his stockinged feet.

One of the advantages of transforming a wine cellar to a sick room. Soon to be a charnel house though. In his opinion.

"Is that what you were thinking, last week? Some grand, god-glorious... thing? Or was it just a spur of the moment... sick of studying, let's knock Louis on his fat arse? Christ, I miss your age... Bedded every seamstress and tavern girl for miles – what nights! There was that little kitten – what was her name... Amelié, Ami- no matter, she had a tongue like a little snake... Sweet thing, she must be near forty by now... Gods, this house has no taste in merlot – shit, all of it... Just shit..."

An incoherent murmur was his only answer.

"Still whining for him, aren't you? Poor bugger – well, I tried – God, You listening?!" he shouted in the direction of the ceiling – "You can't say I didn't try! The old man's just gonna have to live with some old-fashioned disappointment, like the rest of us... Any clue what he wanted you for? These aristos always had queer tastes – and with a daughter, he's got a daughter – still, just because a man likes beef, doesn't mean he won't settle for some cod now and again... Ever thought of that? You might well have enjoyed it with some white-bosomed little ingenué from Orléans – but _non_, _non_... only greek love would suffice – Well, _liberté, equalité, _and for you especially, _fraternité_."

He took another long swallow, wine trickling in dark rivulets down his chin, like diseased blood.

The boy on the floor gave another weak twitch, shivering beneath eight blankets and an overcoat, the red flush on his neck and chest clear as crimson paint.

"You wouldn't have gotten far, anyway." The drunk beside him mused. "Not too many men do, without walking."

He laughed like a madman at his own statement, until tears started streaming from his eyes and he was reduced to a series of sobs, the bottles smashing against the stones of a nearby wall as he flung them, one by one.

The noise seemed to break through the hot fog clouding the boy's senses, and he jerked convulsively.

"Nn- Sh – Di –"

"Amen." Belcourt wept, raising an unbroken bottle. "_Vive le Republique." _

**A.N. – Thoughts? Opinions? Questions? Please review!**

**Translations –**

_salle à manger – _dining room


	8. Chapter 8

**A.N. – Hello again! Sorry about the wait! **

**Second to last chapter! Hope you enjoy!**

**REVIEW!**

A final heave, and Marius emptied the last contents of his stomach into the wash basin, trembling.

The sun had barely risen, yet the townhouse had been swarming since one in the morning, every servant in a state of organized panic.

He supposed he could understand, feeling rather the same way. And yet, every maid and manservant had simply a means to a single end – dust an urn, settle a rose, roast a duck. And once the task was completed, it remained so. They need never look back on it, and they might continue with their lives.

He had no such escape. Save one.

The thought brought another wave of nausea, and he retched, though there was nothing to come up. A hoarse moan ripped from his throat as he fell back against the unmade bedclothes.

He could still protest... Dear God, why hadn't he?!

Perhaps _Grand-pere _had struck upon a grain of truth, and he couldn't bring himself to crush the hopes of an innocent girl...

More likely he had simply lost all expectation in life – allowed another to lead him where they wished...

His hand shook ever so slightly as he reached beneath the second pillow – God knew why he kept it there... Perhaps somewhere in his mind was the fragment of a hope that maybe, one night – a defective trigger mechanism, an accidental roll of his head...

Fingers tightened around the stock of the pistol, a nail tracing the engravings.

_Georges Pontmercy..._

What would his father say, were he to see what his only child had become?

No no, Marius chided himself gently as he laid back into the swathes of soft linen, steadying his breath. He ought not to think about that, not now... Remember the happier days, the beautiful ones...

A smile crept over his face, even as a perfect tear streamed down to dampen the sheet, as he let his eyes flutter shut and his mind began to drift into the past...

What time was it? Eight? The garret would be bathed in sunlight by now, reflecting off the yellowed paper on the walls and making it shine like burnished gold... They would still be curled on the mattress together, and if there were no riots to be held they would likely remain there until it was scandalously late in the day. Eventually hunger would lure them guiltily from the sheets, though their resolve could never be trusted – one might ask for the other to lace up the back of his waistcoat, allowing lips to brush a smooth neck, hands to curl and twine playfully...

Marius had always loved that damned jacket. The lining wine-colored, and the exterior a blood-red. It was the only one Julien owned, and his practice was to turn it inside out on differing days. Marius had thought it amusing, and not a little adorable.

Strange, how the slightest things prove endearing to the besotted...

The city always came alive at night, as they laid the plans for a better world within the corners of a dusty wine shop... Some evenings it was little more than a gathering among boys, for drink and chatter, despite Julien's best efforts at control... On other nights passions flared and blood seethed, and Madame Hucheloup would discover more than a few of her chairs smashed to pieces in the morning... It was these nights he recalled the most, when they stumbled back into their hovel, tipsy on wine and incensed with leftover fervor - hands would rip at layers and layers of dusty cloth, releasing all the flesh and sensuality that the world condemned; many nights they never so much as made it beneath the blankets, their bodies exposed to frigid air that they never felt - groping, squeezing, gnawing, sucking, nipping – their hips would grind and buck like the bodies of animals, and as the memories swam back, he couldn't help a quiet, humorless laugh – all the others had thought them virginal...

The soft smile gave way to tears, as he cocked the gun, trying to still his shaking hands.

_Think, think quickly – a last image, something to hold on to..._

The last riot, before that ever damned June the Sixth... Julien shouting to the crowd of beggars and gypsies, his face glowing, eyes bright...

"I'm coming, love..." Marius whispered into the empty air, eyes closing.

"Tell my father I'm coming..."

The barrel felt cold against his tongue, the powder bitter-tasting and foul...

The images swirled in his head, swimming in and out of focus, and his mind went black.

* * *

It had been only the briefest glance through a half-open door – and for that, Valjean would thank the Lord until his dying day.

The boy's eyes snapped open, and his whole body began to tremble as a far larger hand closed over his own, and drew the pistol out of his grip, gently...

For too long there were no words between them, just eyes filled with their own share of shame, confusion, and unspeakable sadness.

The man knelt at the bedside, taking up a shaking hand, and brushing back dark hair.

It took near to an hour, but the younger of the two was the first to break the silence.

"_M'sieur..._ I- I don't –"

"Shhh... There's no need for that, son – what troubles you?"

Tears streamed down a face pocked with freckles, adding to the collection of salty lines already painted over his skin.

"Y-You'd not forgive me for it..."

"I believe I possess better understanding of my own soul then you, Monsieur Pontmercy – as you do of your own."

He tightened his grip gently – and gradually, so as not to frighten.

"Now speak to me."

* * *

"You may tell the bishop to clear the chapel – there'll be no wedding today."

Gillenormand stared, but the grey eyes looming far above his own held no evidence of jest.

"_M'sieur... _May I ask what caused you to- "

"It's quite simple, _m'sieur -_ I'll not allow my child to be sentenced to a loveless marriage for your convenience."

"But – But surely – I mean - my God, man –" the aristocrat stuttered, flushing, as he tried desperately to regain what he had seen as a God-sent chance to preserve his family's honor – and which was rapidly slipping through his fingers, thanks to the dark-haired whelp cowering by the door.

"Save your words, _m'sieur._" Fauchelevent cut across, eyes blazing. "A union which holds naught but grief for one party can hardly be counted a blessing, and I would not wish such an existence on one whom I struggled to keep and protect. Consider this our last correspondence."

He turned sharply – with an odd grace belied by his immense height – and paused to lay a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder before he slipped through the door, and it clicked shut. Several moments later, a carriage could be heard rattling out of the courtyard.

The youth let out a cry as an ebony walking stick came down across his collarbone, leaving a large red welt visible beneath the thin linen of his dress-shirt - fingers twisted in his shorn hair, and yanked his head up.

"Now listen to me closely." Gillenormand hissed into his grandson's ear, pale eyes burning.

"You will leave this room quietly. You will return to the girl, beg her pardon for your cowardice and lapse in judgment, and bring her to the church in a fiacre. There will be a bishop and four deacons waiting, all of whom know me well enough not to lie. And afterwards –"

The boy sobbed, and was rewarded with a slap to a freckled cheek.

"The chamber on the third story has been prepared – you will have two hours. At nine o'clock, the servants will come to collect the bed sheets, and I will expect you in my study, with an eager report of every indecent sound to come out of the girl's mouth. Moreover, this arrangement will continue for the next six weeks, or until you are safely assured of an heir, and the world will have no need to hold any suspicions of your... indecorum. Is that perfectly clear?"

He expected tears, protestations, desperation. He was not disappointed.

With a show of strength that many would have found shocking, he shook the boy until his teeth rattled and shoved him to the floor in a blubbering heap, where he lay shaking and refusing to rise.

Very well. Time to play the trump card.

"Allow me to offer you a slight... incentive." the elder muttered.

"You may either prove yourself worthy of your masculine identity – or you may put a bullet through your sodomite's pretty skull. Well, not so pretty now. But whichever you w- "

The wind was knocked from the man's lungs as a much larger, youthful body struck him with enough force to crush him to the gilded wall.

"_He's alive?!_"

Gillenormand fought for a breath, his eyes bulging -

"_Where is he?!"_

A scathing comment began to work it's way up his throat – until something round, cold, and nightmarishly familiar pressed itself to his chin, and a _click_ echoed through the chamber.

* * *

His wounded shoulder screaming under the abuse, Marius threw himself against the cellar door without any thought of self-mercy or constraint, beating at the rusted lock until it broke off.

The hinges shrieked as he heaved the portal open, sobbing with exhaustion and a kind of numb assuagement that he could only describe as deliverance –

The stench hit full force, and sent him reeling. Something sickly sweet, to the point of bitterness...

"_Non, non non non non, Dieu, s'il vous plaît, vous ne pouvez pas faire cela -_!"

Several racks of wine smashed to the floor in a whirl of purple and emerald, and his heart dropped into his belly at the sight that greeted him, by the far wall...

"No, no no no-!"

The body lay in a pool of half-dried blood – it came away sticky on Marius' hands, though he hardly noticed through his hysterical sobbing –

It wasn't right! It wasn't fair! It wasn't - It wasn't Enjolras.

The man must have been near to sixty, judging by the lines on his face –perhaps he had lost his footing in the dark and landed on one of the glass shards that littered the floor... that would explain the blood...

A low moan tore him from his stunned reverie, and with a cry he ripped back several blankets that covered what he had assumed was simply a pile of rags-

"_Mon Dieu -! _Julien! _Julien!"_

Fever bright eyes flickered to his own, and with a rush of wild relief he noted a glimmer of recognition.

"M-Mmm –"

"Shhh –_Oui_, I'm here, I'm here, I've got you – Oh – Oh Julien, oh no –" he whimpered softly, fingertips caressing the ragged hole partially hidden by wet tendrils of blonde hair...

Cool breath drifted across his skin, and with it, the ghost of a word.

"W-what?" he half-wept, as the tension of nine days finally released and left him shaking.

Cracked lips brushed his cheek, and for a wild moment he wanted to scream – _Non, non, mon amour, les autres sont morts et nous n'avons pas été victorieux, nous ne changeait rien, nous ne devons pas, nous ne devons pas, mais oh s'il vous plaît-!_

A blood-caked finger traced his earlobe and there was a tear – the first he had seen spill from blue eyes...

"..._Je t'aime_."

**A.N. – Well? What did you think? Only one more chapter to go! Review!**

**Translations:**

_Non, non non non non, Dieu, s'il vous plaît, vous ne pouvez pas faire cela - _No, no no no no, God, please, you can't do this

_Non, non, mon amour, les autres sont morts et nous n'avons pas été victorieux, nous ne changeait rien, nous ne devons pas, nous ne devons pas, mais oh s'il vous plaît-! -_ No, my love, others are dead and we were not victorious, we didn't change anything, we shouldn't, we mustn't, but oh - please!


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N. – Well, this is it! Hope you've all enjoyed it! **

There were no windows to allow in even a sliver of sunlight, and Marius couldn't help but miss the sensation of warmth on his back as he stirred awake – but then, one would be fortunate to find any natural light at all in the _Rue de L'Homme Armé_...

Anyway, he had no reason or right to complain. Monsieur Fauchelevent had been more than generous, though why the gentleman would own property in such a disreputable part of the city was beyond his understanding. No matter. The place was hidden from the _garde nationale_, it was safe from the eyes of his family, and the fire in the grate provided plenty of heat – as did the skin beneath his cheek.

"_Bon matin._"

He quickly recognized the pressure of a mouth against his hair and smiled, his fingers tracing the red marks along Enjolras' pale skin – where the bars of that damned brace had dug inside. The relief of it's absence was still palpable in both of them, ever since D'Avrigny – a physician recommended by their benefactor, and not a depressive soaked in merlot – had deemed the spinal column strong enough to sustain self-support.

"_Et vous._"

Still heavy-eyed from sleep, he crawled awkwardly into a sitting position and stroked his brow, brushing aside a few idle curls.

" 're they coming?"

"Too many guards, the boy said – tomorrow or the day after. There's beef and some gamay by the fire though, we won't starve."

Enjolras caught his wrist before he could sweep his fingers through blonde hair, and Marius let himself enjoy the jolt of excitement that seemed to burn straight from his palm to his loins as lips brushed the skin, before common sense won out.

"None of that!" he smirked, snatching the hand away. "You've had your fun and distracted me – now on your belly."

The blond groaned, and rolled his eyes.

"I'm not an invalid!"

"Yes you are!" he chided back, laughing. "Now turn over!"

He obeyed, gingerly, with a sullen expression that was hardly jesting, and Marius repressed a sigh as the mood of contentment faded.

"Do you ever intend to accept that once in a while, the reins are not in your hands and you might have to lend control to another?"

There was no answer, only a non-committal mumble.

"So I thought."

A foot jabbed him in the thigh, and he jumped – more from surprise than pain.

"Do you intend to mock me all morning, or will you get on with things?"

"Patience _chéri _– hand me the bottle?"

A glass vial of olive oil was retrieved from beneath the wool-stuffed mattress and slapped into his palm, and several minutes later firm muscles gave a start as they were met by slick hands.

"_Pour l'amour de Dieu_, this doesn't work if you don't relax!"

"Couldn't I just –"

"No, not if you want to risk hurting yourself. Come now, what's so unendurable?"

Enjolras let his head flop back to the bed, his lips tight, and something glimmered near his left eye – it took a full minute for Marius to recognize it as a tear, while his bedmate groaned in a manner more mournful than frustrated.

"You wish to hear the full list? I've lost an ear and two fingers, I'll never be able to lift my right arm any higher than my shoulder, I still see spots sometimes, I've had three convulsions in the past two days, I can't so much as walk across a room without – you know, yesterday I tried again? When you were out dumping the rubbish? I hardly made it four steps before I -!"

"It takes time, _chéri_ – you think I was riding a week after... after it all, much less walking?!" Marius cut in quickly, hoping to silence him before the self-flagellation could progress any further. He was unsuccessful.

"You suffered a single bullet through the flesh of your thigh, for the love of God! The bastards tore me to pieces because they could, and – and- God, Marius, you remember me, remember how I was – Apollo at the Musain?" There was a smattering of humorless laughter. "And what if – what if they destroyed that permanently, what if I never –"

"Stop." came a soft chide, and warmth spread across his skin as he stretched himself over Enjolras' back, his forearms holding his weight and simply allowing them both the sensation of flesh on flesh...

"Just stop, love... I know it hurts, and it will, but there's little we can do for now. So just lie still, and... and start planning the next overthrow of the state."

They both smiled weakly as he brushed a kiss over the existing ear.

""It's what they all would have expected of Apollo... Now, let me take care of you?"

He nodded slowly, and with another brush of his mouth Marius braced his palms on either side of the mattress and let his body begin to rock.

"Wai- What are you- !"

"_Chut... chut..._ just enjoy it..." he murmured, hips rolling, mimicking the motions of love-making as his hands began to wander, still slippery with the oil.

"I –I don't – _guh_ – I don't think this was wha –what he meant by – physical therapy..."

"Shhh... Lift up on your arms a bit, love..."

He did as he was told, trembling, and the spasms only worsened when greased fingers slid up his belly and plucked at darkening nipples –

* * *

"...better?"

"Mmm-hmmm..." was the inarticulate reply, the flush cooling from overheated skin as soft lips pressed to the back of his neck...

The caresses took on a methodical pattern once again – deliberate, gentle pressure on either side of the spine – and Marius grinned into damp blonde curls as Enjolras murmured at the sensation.

"_T'aime_..."

The grin softened to a gentle smile, and lips brushed over the shell of his remaining ear.

"_Moi aussi, ma chérie... Moi aussi..._"

_Fin._

**A.N. – Hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks to all my followers and those who took time to review! Don't forget to leave me a note with your final thoughts!**

Translations:

_Bon matin – _'Morning.

_Et vous – _You too.

_Pour l'amour de Dieu – _For God's sake

_T'aime_ – 'Love you

_Moi aussi, ma chérie... Moi aussi... – _Me too, darling... Me too...


End file.
